


Dancing Doll

by papergardener



Category: Ballerina | Leap! (2016)
Genre: Ballet, Dancing, Dream Sequence, Felicie sucks at comforting people, Friendship, Gen, Headcanon, Post-Movie, coppelia - Freeform, dancing doll - Freeform, oblivious Felicie is my fave, this took me forever to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 10:43:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13098414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papergardener/pseuds/papergardener
Summary: Félicie visits Camille after she stops showing up to ballet class, although it wasn't for the reason she had expected. Turns out they might have more in common than they thought.





	Dancing Doll

“I-I’m here to see Camille,” Félicie said, stuttering from both cold and nerves as she stood on the snow-covered doorsteps, looking up at a sullen man in a dark coat who she had never seen before. At least it wasn’t Camille’s mother.  
  
“What is this regarding?” he asked, his face growing stern as he took in her borrowed coat from Odette, hanging loose on her shoulders. After a late autumn, winter had fallen on Paris in an icy blast, and Félicie had found herself not well prepared.  
  
“I- we, um… we both dance at the ballet school at the Opera,” Félicie said, rocking back on her heels. “And she hasn’t been to class in weeks. So I came to check on her. Is she all right?”  
  
If anything, his face grew harder. “From the ballet, you say? Well, we appreciate your concern, but Mlle. Le Haut is not seeing visitors now. Good day.”  
  
He made to slam the door but a woman’s voice stopped him.  
  
“Wait.”  
  
The man turned to reveal a stern-looking woman coming down the hallway, dressed all in black with her light, silver-streaked hair curled and pulled into a high bun. She wasn’t exactly tall, although she gave that impression from how she walked and held her head. And though she wasn’t exactly pretty, yet she still had an elegance that made her seem quite beautiful.  
  
“Madame Chauvon,” the man said with a respectful nod, stepping aside.  
  
“You are a friend of Camille?” she asked, looking down at her.  
  
“Yeah,” Félicie said, then muttered, “more or less.”  
  
She tried not to fidget as the woman’s eyes took in the oversized coat, the heavy scarf, the patched skirt above her ankles. Mme. Chauvon turned to the man.  
  
“Let her in.”  
  
“Pardon, Madame, but are you sure? I don’t know if the Mademoiselle has earned such a privilege as visitors. Especially one of the _petit rats_ from the Opera,” the man said in a conspiratorial whisper.  
  
“Camille is still a little girl, she needs friends,” she said, offering no room for argument. Then she looked again at Félicie and waved a hand. “Come along.”  
  
“Right, uh, thanks,” Félicie said, edging past the glaring man with an almost apologetic smile. She breathed a sigh of relief- it was already much warmer than outside. And this woman seemed much nicer than Camille’s mom.  
  
“And be sure not to touch anything,” the woman said sharply.  
  
“Right!” Félicie said, hurrying to catch up as she began to climb the spiraling staircase. Mme. Chauvon moved smoothly, holding her skirt up with a delicate air, the kind of high-class thing that Félicie would have mimicked for fun at the orphanage.  
  
Without stopping, Mme. Chauvon turned her head and glanced back at her. “I want to thank you for coming. Camille has been quite upset these past few days, shutting herself in that room, barely speaking to us. Understandable of course, poor thing, but still. Perhaps you might be able to comfort her.”  
  
“I’ll, uh, do my best?” Félicie said, wondering why Camille would need comforting. Was she still upset about not getting the role?  
  
“To be quite honest, I'm concerned for her. To think her mother had been pushing her so hard into ballet, of all the things. I wonder what my brother would have thought, God rest his soul. He had practically saved Regine by marrying her, letting her have a real life instead of being a dancer. Oh, pardon, I meant no offense," she said, though didn’t look very apologetic.  
  
Félicie shrugged, spared from having to answer as they reached the top landing and went down a dark green hallway to a closed door on which the woman gave a sharp rap with a gloved hand.  
  
“Camille, you have a visitor: Mademoiselle Félicie, from your class at the Opera.”  
  
“Oh… one moment, please,” came the muffled response.  
  
Félicie could hear hurried movement, and in less than a minute Camille came out in a drab black dress, lined with crepe. She glanced to Félicie, surprise flickering in her blue eyes, before looking up at the woman.  
  
“Thank you, aunt,” Camille said, her face expressionless.  
  
“I hope you’re not dancing in there,” she said stiffly, peering through the open door.  
  
“No Madame. Just reading.”  
  
Félicie found herself shrinking into her scarf at the coolness between the two women. More chilling, though, was how different Camille was than before. Of course, Félicie barely knew her in the first place, but it was still odd. Before, she had been bold as brass, all full of energy and confidence. This new Camille was cold, quiet and somber. Félicie decided she missed the old her already.  
  
“Good,“ Mme. Chauvon said, straightening up with a slight nod. “See that you escort your guest out when she leaves.”  
  
“Yes, Madame.”  
  
Félicie stood against the wall as the older woman turned to leave and paused, then looked at her and smiled in a way that made everything about her seem soft and kind. With a slight nod, an unspoken _thank you_ , she left the two girls alone. Félicie decided that she liked her a whole lot better than Camille’s mom. Which wasn’t saying much, considering Mme. Le Haut had tried to murder her just weeks earlier.  
  
“Come on,” Camille muttered, staring after her aunt as Félicie stepped into the room. It was only when she was standing in the middle did Félicie recognize it as the practice room where she had first met Camille. The practice barre was gone, the tall mirrors draped with heavy cloth, her balcony door lined in black crepe. It felt so cold and dismal Félicie shivered, rubbing her arms.  
  
“Whoah, what happened? Did someone die?”  
  
“My mother.”  
  
Félicie turned and stared at Camille, who didn’t meet her eyes.  
  
“The funeral was a couple days ago,” said in the same flat voice.  
  
“Oh. I… I had no idea. I’m sorry. Was it from the, uh…” Félicie bit her lip, and thought to the night of the premier, when Mme. Le Haut had chased her, had gone completely mad. She had half-hoped it had been a bad dream.  
  
“She fell, after she chased you up that statue. I couldn’t see it all that well, but something happened, and all the scaffolding fell on top of her. They say she hit her head pretty bad. She passed away soon after.”  
  
“I didn’t know. I…oh. _Mon Dieu_ , it was my fault, wasn’t it? Camille, I—“  
  
“No!” she said forcefully, the first real emotion she had shown that whole time. “It wasn’t your fault. My… my mother tried to _kill you_.”  
  
Félicie didn’t know what to say. It was the truth. A horrible, ugly truth that lay between them in the cold room.  
  
“She tried to kill you, and for what? Because of me, because I didn’t get that part. She was so angry that I lost that role.” Camille winced as if in pain, gripping her left arm. She kept her eyes down. “I… I had never seen her like that before, it was so, so…”  
  
“Terrifying?”  
  
Camille nodded.  
  
“Does anyone else know what happened that day?”  
  
“No,.” Camille still refused to look at her. “I told everyone that I’d been playing there and my mother went to save me before I hurt myself. That the scaffolding had come down by accident. I didn’t want them to know what she’d done. What she had tried to do.” She looked up and locked eyes with Félicie, both angry and desperate. “You can’t tell anyone. Promise!”  
  
“I won’t, I promise” Félicie said, and swore to herself that she would take the secret to the grave. She wasn’t a fan of Camille for many reasons, but she respected her. Her dedication, her strength, and now her loyalty. Despite everything, Camille was still trying to protect her mother. Even if it meant taking the blame on her own shoulders.  
  
“I guess this whole funeral thing is why you haven’t been to class.”  
  
“Well, duh,” she said in a much more familiar, more human voice.  
  
"So… when can you go back to the Opera?"  
  
Camille sighed. "Maybe never.”  
  
“What? Why?”  
  
“My aunt and uncle don't want me to do ballet. They said that it’s beneath me, and want me to go back to Coubervoie with them and take up studies in piano and poetry.” Camille paused, her face scrunching up at the thought. Then she curled in on herself, looked miserable again. “And even if they did let me do ballet again, I wouldn't be able to return for months, maybe a year.”  
  
“Whoah, a year?” Félicie said, trying and failing to imagine a whole year- months and months- without dancing. And Odette was often telling her that even missing one day of training was bad.  
  
“At least nine months, but probably longer. My aunt is making sure I mourn properly this time. She said that I hadn't shown enough respect when my dad died.”  
  
“Your dad?”  
  
Camille nodded. Félicie leaned back as the realization struck her.  
  
They were both orphans. The same, and yet completely different. Félicie had never know her parents, had never known what it was like to have a family, a home. Camille had had it all, and knew the pain of losing it. She didn’t know which one was worse.  
  
“That sucks.”  
  
Camille gave her an incredulous look. Félicie backtracked.  
  
“I mean, um, that’s really terrible. About your parents. And it’s awful that you don’t get to do ballet anymore.”  
  
“Oh please,” Camille said, crossing her arms. “As if you’d care. Now you have less competition to deal with at the Opera. I’m not stupid, you know.”  
  
“I mean it. Besides, I was actually looking forward to dancing against you again. What we did in the theater that day was, like, the most fun I’ve ever had doing ballet. Ever.”  
  
“Oh. Yeah, that was pretty fun.” Camille relaxed a little, loosening her crossed arms. She stepped over to a chaise lounge against the wall and perched on the edge, feigning an air of indifference.  
  
“So… how have classes been? Are they still rehearsing for the new ballet?"  
  
"Yeah, there’s always rehearsals, and class is exhausting like usual.” Félicie idly kicked her foot up stepping over to where Camille sat. “You’re lucky you don’t have to do them, my legs are killing me, and Odette says I can’t even take one day off. Oh, and then some of the girls were talking about auditioning for a ballet coming up in the spring. Something called, uh, Copeh… Cope-ah something.”  
  
“ _Coppélia_?”  
  
“That!” Félicie said with a snap of her fingers.  
  
Camille gave a little huff of laughter and a condescending look. “That’s a famous ballet, you do know that?”  
  
“Really?”  
  
Camille rolled her eyes and leaned back, her eyes focused on her pale fingers against the black of her dress, as if deep in thought. “I always thought I was similar to her,” she said softly.  
  
“To who?”

  
“Coppélia, the dancing doll in the ballet. I know you’re supposed to want to be Swanilda- that’s the lead role by the way, since you clearly don’t know anything.”  
  
“Swanilda? That’s a weird name.”  
  
“Well, that’s her name,” Camille said slowly, raising her eyebrow as if Félicie was asking her to change it. “It looks like a fun role to play. You know, I bet you’d be good as her. But whenever I watched the ballet, all I kept thinking about was the doll. I think… I think she scared me. It’s so stupid!” she said suddenly, balling her hands into fists.  
  
“What?” Félicie went and sat beside her. The prim little sofa was not as comfortable as she had hoped, but she ignored it. Camille hunched her shoulders, leaning away from her.  
  
“If you tell this to anyone, you’ll regret it.”  
  
“Uh, all right,” Félicie said, confused but curious.  
  
“I was afraid I’d become her,” Camille finally whispered, so soft Félicie had to lean close to hear her. “I was afraid that one day I would become nothing more than a pretty dancing doll. I’d dream about it, all alone in a dark room, and forced to dance and dance, never stopping… I felt so powerless.”  
  
“It was just a dream,” Félicie said and put a tentative hand on her shoulder that was quickly brushed off, as Camille sat up and glared at her.  
  
“I know it was, idiot!” she said, but the tremor in her voice took away the harshness.  
  
“Then—“  
  
“But it’s true, isn’t it? That’s what I am!” she said, and there was a desperate pleading look in her eyes. “Just a dumb doll. At rehearsal, Mérante said that I was emotionless, that I needed to express something and… and it was like I didn’t know how. I can’t even answer why I dance, and I’ve been doing it most of my life. I can’t remember if I ever wanted to do ballet. I never questioned it. I only ever… I only did what my mother told me.”  
  
She let out a deep breath, her expression shifting from self-anger to misery. Her eyes dimmed, her shoulders lowered and her face took on a flat, dull look.  
  
“And now look at me. My mother died and I… I don’t feel anything. I should be sad. I should have cried, right? Or, or something. Maybe I’m supposed to be happy, or relieved. But there’s nothing. My mom’s dead and…”  
  
They sat in silence, the unsaid words lingering between them. Félicie thought of her own mother. She thought of her own dream, or maybe memory, or merely hope personified, of a red-headed woman dancing and twirling as she tossed the pale green music box high in the air… her music box. She fumbled in the deep pocket of her coat and pulled it out, the chipped paint on the top almost as comforting as the soft weight in her hand. She opened it– more careful than she usually was- and with a few small cranks it began to play its tinny lullaby.  
  
“Huh, another dancing doll,” Camille murmured. Félicie smiled, and then it faded.  
  
“This is all I have left of my mom,” Félicie said, watching it spin. “I never knew her, I don’t even know if she’s alive. I have a memory of her holding me, I think, from when I was a baby. Or maybe it’s just my imagination. I don’t know. When I hear this, it’s nice because it’s like... it’s easier to miss her. But I don’t think I’ve ever really felt, you know, sad. Just, just this weird… emptiness.”  
  
The music box gave a final ‘ting’ and went still. She could feel Camille’s eyes on her, but Félicie only stared into the blank face of the figurante. She clamped the lid down, feeling the chipped paint under her thumb. Why was she telling all this to Camille, anyway?  
  
“Sometimes the other kids at the orphanage would cry for their mom and dad. I couldn’t bear to hear them, so I always ran away to the hills or the bell tower. I didn’t want to think about it. I mean, I wanted parents, I missed the _idea_ of them, of having loving parents in a warm home, but…”  
  
She let out a shaky breath. Despite what she had said, her eyes were warm.  
  
“Maybe, maybe what I’m trying to say is… it’s all right. To not cry.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Camille said after a pause.  
  
Félicie looked up, having never heard her apologize for anything. Camille looked away, seeming surprised herself.  
  
“I’m sorry for breaking it before. Especially since it means so much to you. I’ve been really awful to you, haven’t I?”  
  
Félicie shrugged. “Yeah, you were. But to be fair, I did steal your identity. And took that lead role.”  
  
“True.” Camille leaned forward, her head bowed as her hands gripped the hard edges of the chaise. “It was my dream. I so badly wanted to get into that school, you have no idea. Every day I trained and waited for that letter, and in the end none of it mattered. I failed. And now I may never get to dance on that stage. Ever. Everything, all this time and work… and it was all for nothing.”  
  
Camille gave a shuddering sigh, looking out into the empty room, growing darker in the fading winter light. Félicie followed her gaze to the barre covered up, the mirrors, the scuffed and polished floor. For the first time, Félicie truly felt guilty. She hadn’t meant to hurt anyone, not really. And even though Camille had once said that she only danced because of her mother, Félicie suspected there was more to it than that.  
  
“Do you… want to keep dancing?”  
  
“I don’t know.” Camille hugged her arms around her chest, sounding so lost that Félicie looked around, trying to think of something, something…  
  
“Well, would you like to dance now?” Félicie asked, turning to her.  
  
“What do you mean ‘now?’”  
  
“I mean we should dance. Right now!” Félicie jumped up and pulled her scarf off. Camille didn’t move, just squinted at her, as if waiting for the punch line to a joke. Félicie just grinned. “Whenever I’m sad or anxious, I dance.”  
  
“Of course you do,” Camille said, rolling her eyes.  
  
“Come on, don’t you ever just dance for fun?”  
  
“You really haven’t been paying attention,” she said, but was smiling all the same, and Félicie knew she was doing something right.  
  
She fiddled with the last button of her coat and shucked it off, throwing it into the air before it landed in a heap with a muffled ‘thwump’ before she reached a hand out, and waited.  
  
Camille bit her lip, then cautiously took her hand and let herself be pulled to her feet. She looked down at her long black dress, and began unfastening the buttons. In a flash she had the drab dress pulled over her head, revealing a white tulle skirt that was almost blinding in contrast.  
  
“I thought you said you weren’t dancing in here?” Félicie teased, putting her hands on her hips.  
  
“What my aunt doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Camille said, then carefully placed the black dress on the back of a chair.  
  
Félicie jumped from foot to foot, unable to contain her sudden burst of energy, and with a low whoop she twirled, spinning about until Camille hushed her with a look to the floor below. So Félicie shrugged and swung herself around the blonde with a light laugh.  
  
Camille hesitated, looking strangely unsure of herself, but Félicie gave an encourage smile and was glad when Camille moved into third position, one arm curving to the side, and then she too began to dance. Although not even half a minute in and Félicie stopped, just watching as Camille did a _sissone_ jump into _tendu_. Her footwork was perfect, her arms sharp and precise but Félicie suspected that she was doing a specific routine, only going through the motions. Thinking fast, Félicie grabbed her hand as she brought it down from an arabesque and stepped in front, facing her.  
  
“What are you doing? You’re ruining it,” Camille said, coming to a halt as she glanced at the hand holding hers.  
  
“Try dancing _with_ ”  
  
She frowned but allowed herself to be led along and together they sashayed down the room, Camille stumbling for a moment before matching her wide, kicking steps like what she used to do in Brittany. When at the end of the room, she faced Camille and spun her, bringing out a light laugh from the other girl. They danced together, hand in hand, before Camille did the same to her, twirling her, but Félicie flowed under her arms and kept going, spinning away before launching into a leap. Camille followed close behind with her own _chaines turns_ , smiling for real, and finally looked like she was having some fun.  
  
The two of them danced, part ballet and part everything else. Camille had frowned at Félicie’s more unusual moves, before copying and putting her own spin on it, sometimes literally. They pranced about and nearly hit each other when they got too close, and Camille laughed once after Félicie had landed on her rump, dizzy from too many _fouettés._  
  
It really was fun to dance with Camille, she thought with great satisfaction, especially when she really put her heart and soul into it. Of course, they had very different styles, Camille in general was more reserved, precise, almost thoughtful, while Félicie was, frankly, not. As they danced Camille’s movements became softer, slower, but Félicie shrugged it off, figuring she was growing tired as well. She spun about with a wild flourish, then turned to Camille and stopped at the sight.  
  
Camille stood motionless, with her arms high, reaching, _reaching_ for something. She balanced on her toes, her face tight with pain, the definitive look of someone holding back a sob. Slowly she lowered her hands and sank down, bringing them to her chest as if… as if…  
  
A shudder ran through her.  
  
It was as if cradling a child.  
  
There was a hollow thud as Camille dropped to her knees and buried her face in her arms. Then she began to cry, taking deep shaking breaths between sobs that shook her thin frame.  
  
Félicie stood still, fighting back the impulse to flee. She vividly thought back to the orphanage, to the cries of the other children. It was almost like she heard them as well, the children who cried into their pillows because they missed their family so much, or screamed in anger that they had been abandoned. Or at how unfair life could be. Félicie couldn’t miss her family, because she never had one.  
  
She wanted to run. Run far away to the snow-dusted streets of Paris where girls didn’t cry and a tinny melody didn’t echo in her mind. Instead, she brushed a quick hand at the corner of her eye and knelt down beside Camille who stayed bent over, hiding her face. Like a child who’d lost her mom.  
  
Félicie bowed her head, thinking of her own mom. Her dad. There was nothing but a lonely ache deep within. For a long time neither moved, and night began to fall outside.  
  
“It’ll be all right,” Félicie whispered, and hoped it was true.

  
  
⁂

  
  
Camille was trapped.  
  
Slowly, endlessly, she twirled upon her toes, stuck in an unmoving, perfect arabesque. Her arms and legs felt no pain, just a hollow numbness. Her cheeks were stiff with blush, her mouth a painted smile. She was alone. No one... no one else was there, all gone, vanished.  
  
From high on a pedestal she spun, surrounded by a murky haze that lingered between darkness and nothingness, and beneath her feet came a tinny, metallic tune that echoed and faltered. If she fell, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself. She’d just break. All someone would have to do is push her…  
  
She shivered, but dolls don’t shiver. They don’t cry. Or speak. They just look pretty and one day they shatter.  
  
_Help_ , she tried to say. _Help me_.  
  
_Please_ …  
  
All at once, the music fell silent and she jerked to a stop. The stillness was deafening. There came a soft noise: the tiny, familiar sound of slippered feet. From the darkness a figure approached, little more than a ghost.  
  
It was a girl. She wore soft white tulle, all covered in beautiful embroidery and with her dark brown hair pulled up in a bun. On her feet were pink dance slippers, and her fingers twirled a golden stalk of wheat. Over her shoulder, a butterfly fluttered about. Camille knew her instinctively.  
  
  
  
The lowly peasant girl from the ballet, who was kind and brave and loved by everyone. Who wore a real smile instead of a painted one, and was all the better for it. Then Camille saw her bright red hair, tied in a braid. Had it been different before? She wasn’t sure.  
  
For seconds or hours they stared at one another. Camille stood trapped in her arabesque, terror gripping her un-beating heart. Would she force her to dance? Or break her? One little push…  
  
Then the girl raised her hands over her head, twirled her wrists around each other, and stretched her arm out with a warm smile. Camille understood.  
  
_Dance with me_.  
  
Camille tried to shake her head.  
  
_I can’t_.  
  
Without any sense of movement, Camille found that she no longer looked down from her precarious height but stood level with her, very close. Even so, her face was hard to see.  
  
The girl stepped closer and touched Camille’s outstretched hand. A shiver ran all through her. Something changed: her finger twitched, her foot dipped, and she could move again.  
  
Slowly she leaned back, hardly daring to breathe. Her hand went to her chest, and she could feel the fluttered beating of her heart. For a moment she waited, afraid to move, afraid that something else would take control, but it never came.  
  
She was free.  
  
Camille looked around and they were on a stage, empty and dark but for a bare bulb on a staff in the center of the stage: a ghost light. It faintly illuminated the vast array of seats spilling out past the orchestra pit, the shadowed wings on either side. It was… exhilarating. Before, the emptiness had been oppressive, but as she stood there it had become like a blank canvas, and she held the brush.  
  
Music began to play, a lone violin at first, then a second joined in. There came the deep _poom-poom_ of a cello, the staccato of drums, the warbling of a flute. The tune wavered, deeply familiar and more in her mind than in her ear. She rose on the balls of her feet, almost on tip toe, straining upwards and then sinking down, keenly aware of how her tulle skirt fluttered against her arms.  
  
Camille glanced at the other girl facing the silent theater. There was a faint sadness about her. For a moment she wavered, like a water’s reflection- a flicker of dark hair, round arms and a face she had never seen before. Then it stopped, and Camille thought nothing of it.  
  
The music soared louder, urging them, welcoming them to dance. The other girl, her Swanilda, turned toward her and held her arms wide, as if beckoning her. Camille took a deep breath and felt a real smile on her cheeks as she slid into forward tendu, feeling the slight strain, a moment’s pause, a breath. Then she stepped forward, kicking her feet up in a _pas de chat_ , her tulle flaring outwards as she turned with her arms high and wide, feeling the air pull at the whisps of her hair. She couldn’t remember every dancing like this. Perhaps she never had. Each step was unplanned, flowing with each beat and breath.  
  
She felt alive.  
  
The world changed, the footlights flared and everything sang gold and crimson. Camille stood on stage of the Opera de Paris, the bright lights warm on her skin, burning in her eyes. She took deep gasps into her lungs, reveling in the rise and fall of her chest, how her legs trembled as she sank into a plié, arms stretched out at her sides.  
  
It was hard. It was painful at times. But it was all worth it.  
  
_It’ll be all right._  
  
She would dance again.  
  
She would find her reason.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Ellymango for helping brainstorm and beta- you're awesome!
> 
> I’ve been wanting to explore more about Camille- she has one of the most potentially interesting story lines in the movie (ok, besides Meradette stuff) and I think the movie fell way short of her potential. So here’s my take on what might have happened next. I think I’m one of the few (only?) to think that her mother actually died at the end. I just assumed she wouldn’t survive all the falling scaffolding.
> 
> Funny enough, in 1884 the Opera really was putting on Coppélia. And speaking of, this is somewhat of a precursor to my long fic that will be coming soon.
> 
> 19th century French funeral customs... a child who lost a parent spent: “six months in crape trimmings, three in plain black, and three in half-mourning… Additionally, society activities would be given up for at least three months, although it was more likely they would be given up for nine months.”
> 
> I’ve got more plans for these two :D


End file.
